Sarah Laughed

And Sarah Laughed, by Abel Pann

My husband reminded me that I left the story hanging with my last post. "Aren't you going to write a followup post?" he asked. It was a momentous week, after all--surprising, humbling, a turning point. As I predicted, by the time I clicked Publish on my last post, I had found my equilibrium. The sun began to shine again, and peace returned. But it was only intermission. The story had yet to play itself out.

Do you remember the Old Testament account of Sarah and Abraham? Like most good Hebrew women, Sarah desired to raise children. To add strength to that perfectly righteous desire, God had promised Abraham that his posterity would be as the sands of the sea. And yet, not only did Sarah fail to conceive, but she had to watch her handmaid, Hagar, deliver Abraham's child in her place. For decades Sarah suffered the disappointment and shame of her childless condition, until at last she reached menopause. And then, one day she stood in the tent door listening while a holy man told Abraham, "Sarah thy wife shall have a son." What did Sarah do? She laughed to herself. The holy man promised the impossible; it was past time.

A couple of days before my recent fit of melancholy, I sat in the temple listening for the inspiration and answers that generally come to me there. The thought that tiptoed through my mind was a vision of Sarah and the gift of Isaac, a gift that came to her only after she had given up hope. Like Sarah, I had for decades desired a particular blessing. It was a perfectly righteous desire and, like Sarah, I had mostly given up hope of receiving that blessing. Mostly, but not quite. Recent events had rekindled just a spark of my hope, and the reminder of Sarah fanned the flame.

Sadly, the evening brought a resounding "no," seemingly straight from Heaven, and the loss of a newly revived hope sent me spiraling downward. My heart cracked just enough to let the faith drain out and the melancholy rush in to take its place. My husband flew to Utah on a trip that now seemed pointless, while I wallowed back at home. But sunshine and exercise, friends and the memory of faith lifted me. I still doubted my own ability to recognize inspiration, but I decided I could live without the desired blessing. After all, I had lived without it for years already.

In the midst of the calm, the phone rang. Astonishingly, the resounding "no" had turned to a "yes." Only after it was impossible did the blessing arrive. The next day, some of the people I love best of all stood together in one of the places I love best. Back home, I smiled. God remembered Sarah, even though she laughed, just as God remembered Rachel and millions of other covenant women. And God remembered me. It feels good to be remembered. I'm humbled that I dared to think my Father would forget me.

It occurs to me that I have not, in fact, really told the rest of the story. After all, most of the telling belongs to other actors in the scene. Truth be told, I suspect that in the end this episode will prove to be just a small part of a tale that continues to unfold. But it is enough to remind me that my notions of possibility can hardly hem in the God of the Universe.

One of THOSE Days

I feel very fortunate to have dodged the clinical depression bullet. But every once in a while, melancholy
descends briefly, leaving me in a tangled heap on the floor, tears hot on my cheeks. I fantasize about cutting a tiny X on my ankle, mostly just to feel the purity of the pain. I resist. Even on a dark day I realize that some doors need to remain firmly closed. Eventually, I stand up and walk slowly from room to room, one foot in front of the other. I pick up a toy, start a load of laundry, wash a dish, tidy the pile of music in the front room. I'm listless, but I begin to catch momentum. Then an email sets me off and I collapse again, wrapping my arms around my gut to embrace the stab of utter uselessness. Part of me stands apart, shaking my head at the silly dramatics that no one else sees in the empty house.

Years ago, on another day like this, I called home, needing my father's usual wisdom and comforting words. But Daddy answered the phone in a bad mood, and I hung up quickly, feeling defensive and cheated. Prayer feels like that this week. God hears; I'm sure of it. But He declines to answer, busy with more important things than my petty mood, or accurately recognizing that I can muddle through just fine on my own and need the experience anyway. I will agree with God tomorrow, probably even pulling some profound tidbit from the process. Today, though, I feel abandoned, my faith buried under cynicism.

Evening wallowing loses its charm after a while, so I exercise. For an hour or so, I can outrun or out bike the melancholy. As my legs pump and my heart beats, I feel strong. Endorphins push the gloom away, and I rise to the surface to take a deep breath. Before long, I'll float to the top for good. By the time you read this, in fact, today's cynicism and gasping sobs will have faded into a memory of a day that I let the world win.

I hope I keep the memory, though, hope that in some way I can imagine these hours of melancholy stretching on for days or weeks. Then perhaps when I come across a friend buried under the waves, the heart that feels like stone now will find the empathy that I need to stretch out a hand. Perhaps I will stand on someone's porch, like a friend did for me today, not so much saying the words that needed to be said but offering a small patch of settled ground to help me gain my balance.

Cologne, Confessions and Opportunity Cost

I know it’s a bit retro, in a 1980s mullet kind of way, but I have to admit that I still think cologne is kind of sexy. I don’t mean Axe body spray, and I don’t mean Old Spice (even though the commercials make me chuckle). I mean good, old-fashioned cologne, the kind we used to buy our boyfriends for Christmas in college, back in the long ago day. I even miss wearing a little Estée Lauder myself. My husband bought me an Egyptian musk a while back, and he tells me it smells wonderful, but apparently it fits my biology perfectly, because once it hits my skin, I smell nothing. That’s how it should be, of course, and I even hesitate to wear the musk very often, so as to avoid offending the olfactory sensitivities of my allergic friends. Still, I miss the lovely dose of nostalgia that comes with an unexpected scent on the air. Sigh. I miss peanuts on airplanes, too. I’m such a cretin.

Since I started along this confession path, I may as well get it all out there.

I miss swearing with abandon. Yes, I still swear, but I do apply a filter much more frequently than I used to. They say that profanity is a sign of a small vocabulary. That may be, but you would be amazed at how creative a literate person can wax with a few well-chosen four-letter words. Did you know, for instance, that many expletives can morph into almost any part of speech (noun, verb, adjective, adverb…)? I can thank my college education for that little gem of knowledge.

I miss wasting time on a regular basis. I freely admit that I still manage to lose a few hours to blogs and Facebook on occasion, but I feel guilty about it every time. I remember spending whole days wandering Cache Valley in search of, well, nothing really. And I remember watching late night TV or talking until dawn. These days, I sneak in a nap or a chapter of a book and then kick myself for the items I could have checked off my “to do” list instead. Blast that stupid list!

I miss partying. Oh, don’t have a conniption. I never drank, never felt the need to drink. But I do miss being able to let go, to dance without worrying about how silly I look. I miss late night philosophical discussions, half in Spanish and half in English, on the front stoop under the stars, with music drifting through the screen door behind me. I hardly admit to knowing any Spanish these days, afraid someone will expect me to speak, and I will make a fool of myself.

I recognize, with some heaviness, the opportunity cost of decisions I made long ago with much deliberation. I chose adventure over home, and now I begin to realize how little I know my extended family and how amazing these people are who share my heritage. In another sense, I chose home over career, and even after more than a decade away from the office, I struggle to find my sense of self without the projects and accolades. In either case, I would make the same decision all over again, but I sense the cost of those decisions more than I once did.

I find I do not mind the sense of loss too much. As long as I avoid getting stuck in the memory, a little backward glance now and again reminds me just how rich and full my life has been over the years and hints at the possibilities ahead. I don't imagine the coming years will find me hitchhiking in Yellowstone again, but the memory of my Yellowstone summer prods me to stick my metaphorical thumb out and see what surprises life has to offer down an unknown path or two.